Wyoming Slaughter Read online

  “Yes, what is it, Pickens?”

  “You’re picking on Sally Sweet, and you’re going to quit it right now.”

  “Picking on Sally?” Stokes removed his spectacles and polished them and replaced them carefully, his skinny lips forming unspoken thoughts.

  “Sheriff, she’s an undesirable, engaged in criminal activity, and I am doing my utmost to get her to remove herself from Puma County. My sole problem is a sheriff who declines to enforce the law and clean up vice in our community.”

  “She’s operating a boardinghouse. She sent her girls packing when the law took hold. She’s as legal as she can be.”

  Stokes removed his spectacles once more, breathed on them, and wiped them clean using the sleeve of his long johns, which were peeking through under his shirtsleeve.

  “Sheriff, if you don’t mind my saying so, you are thick-skulled and witless, if not just plain stupid. In fact, I don’t know how you got past first grade. You made it all the way to fifth grade, but that was only because of the kindness of your teacher, who willfully passed you through second, third, and fourth before you met your Waterloo in fifth. I don’t quite know how you became sheriff, but it has been an ordeal for Puma County officials to get you to enforce the plain law, the law right there on the books.”

  “Well, my ma, she always said I’m quick with my trigger finger.”

  Stokes studied the cleaned lenses and placed his spectacles on his face, adjusting them slightly down the nose, which was his preferred mode of viewing the world.

  “Sally Sweet as you call her, also known as Denver Sally before going underground, is continuing to ply her trade on her own. That she sent her girls away matters not a whit. She welcomes boarders and well, offers services. It’s as plain as the wart on your nose, and just as annoying.”

  “I haven’t seen it. You got proof?”

  “Proof? You mean a witness? Who needs it? There is ample circumstantial evidence. She operates an alleged residence for males and flourishes there, and her reputation speaks loudly in this community. I haven’t the slightest doubt that she is engaged in her nefarious trade, and if she were brought before any judge in Wyoming the verdict would be clear.”

  “You sure know a lot more than I know. I know she’s hardly got any business yet. People quit coming to Doubtful since all them laws got on the books. She’s mostly waiting for things to pick up.”

  “Sheriff, are you one of her customers? Is that it?”

  “Well, she did tell me she’d rent cheaper than Belle, but I like old Belle, so I didn’t move over there.”

  “Sally offered rent and other services?”

  “Yep, rent and breakfast and supper.”

  “Some fine dining in her suite, I imagine.”

  “No, just some good potatoes and gravy and meat loaf on Tuesdays.”

  “You will arrest her and charge her with operating a house of ill repute. I will bring you the papers and you will proceed.”

  “You got any evidence?”

  “Why, what you just told me.”

  “I don’t get it, Stokes. And I’m not hauling her in until there’s some reason for it.”

  “I see. Dereliction of duty. An actionable offense. Maybe I’ll charge you. Send Sheriff Pickens up the river, is that it?”

  “You quit picking on Sally. You heard me. You quit picking on her. You quit trying to buy her place for nothing. You’re trying to pick up some property that’s worth more than any other building in Doubtful. And if you cheat her any way, maybe you’ll be the one in my jailhouse.”

  Stokes stared at me, ice building in his gray face, and I knew the man had gone from adversary to dangerous enemy.

  But, oddly, Stokes changed the subject. “You’re neglecting the Crossing. There’s a wicked little makeshift town ballooning there. And putting vice onto river scows doesn’t cut the mustard. I’ve researched it. County lines extend to the middle of any streambed that forms a boundary. Go do something about it.”

  “Give me some paper and I will.”

  “You don’t need paper. You need to stop the vice . . . if you’re capable of it, which I doubt. Or if you’ve not been bought, which entertains my doubts.”

  Lawyer Stokes arose suddenly. “You’ve wasted enough of my time. I don’t relish explaining things to a fare-thee-well. It would be helpful if we had a diligent sheriff with half an education at the minimum.”

  “Yep, I know it would, but they made me the man,” I said. “I enforce the laws, until I’m out.”

  “Better sooner than later,” Stokes said.

  So, Stokes had some business for me out of town. I headed across the square, looking for Rusty, and found him swabbing out the jail cells with a mop.

  “Looks like I got to go to the Crossing to do a little business,” I said. “County attorney says there’s wild and wicked stuff happening there, and that the county line runs to the middle of the Platte River. So, I’ll be gone a day or two, and you’ll be the law in lawless Doubtful, Wyoming.”

  “Sounds exciting,” Rusty said.

  “Lawyer Stokes has got something up his sleeve. About ten minutes after I’m outa here, he’s going to show up with some paper, and that paper will be a warrant for Sally Sweet, and he’ll want you to bring her in and charge her with running a house of ill repute.”

  “He still after her?”

  “He doesn’t care about her. He wants that building. It’d make the best hotel in Doubtful. She put a lot into it, about five thousand, and he wants to cop it for nothing. The first step is to get her fined and out, and then he’ll maneuver it into his paws, maybe for back taxes or something like that.”

  “So, what am I going to do?”

  “Nothing, Rusty. You just leave her alone. She’s not running a house of ill repute. She’s mostly trying to keep her own property with a boardinghouse operation. Just leave her alone.”

  “Don’t serve her? Don’t bring her in?”

  “More than that. Keep him and the supervisors off her back.”

  “You sure she’s not selling it?”

  “No, not sure. But there’s got to be some evidence, some reason, for making the pinch, and they won’t be on the warrants.”

  “So I defy the county attorney?”

  “Just delay. I’ll do the defying when I get back. All you need is some sick leave, something like that. The way things are going, you’ll probably be sheriff in a few days.”

  Rusty grinned. “That’s what I like about you, Cotton.”

  I headed back to Belle’s, got my slicker and a few overnight items, and headed for Turk’s Livery Barn. Maybe Critter would like a trip, but maybe he wouldn’t. You never knew about Critter, but a knee in his belly usually got him to thinking about his sins. Critter was a horse that needed to repent every Sunday.

  As soon as I slid into that cold dark barn, Critter whickered.

  “I guess you want to get out of here,” I said.

  Critter snorted and nickered and sawed his head up and down.

  “You look friendly today. I’ll saddle you in the aisle,” I said, unhooking the stall gate.

  Critter didn’t move.

  “Come on out of there, you miserable beast.”

  But Critter moved to the head of the stall, refusing to back out.

  “All right then, I’ll come in for you.”

  I edged along a stall wall, and Critter exploded. A hoof narrowly missed me, crashing into the plank and leaving splinters in it.

  “You’re dog food,” I said, sliding the bit between Critter’s yellow teeth. In a moment, I backed Critter out and began brushing Critter in the aisle.

  “High time you got out of town,” Turk said. “If you’d quit arresting people I’d have some business.”

  “Pretty quiet in Doubtful, but there’s some action at the Crossing.”

  “Invite them to town,” Turk said. “This place is a bore.”

  Critter decided to bite Turk, who dodged the teeth.

  “Sell him t
o the canners,” Turk said.

  “I thought I’d sell him to the county supervisors,” I said, tightening up the girth.

  I loaded my gear onto the saddle and tied it down, and led Critter into winter daylight. Critter humped and danced. I climbed aboard and felt myself being tossed around a while, and then Critter sighed, happily, and awaited directions.

  “Need a couple of packhorses to carry bodies?” Turk asked.

  “The supervisors wouldn’t pay you,” I said, and touched my boot heel to Critter’s flank. The rank horse burst into a trot, and I settled him into a fast walk that would put me at the Crossing at dusk.

  It was that time of year when nature is bleakest, with rotting snow and dirty heaps of slush, with naked trees and mean winds, with mire on the trails slowing travel and mud sticking to everything. But I was elated to get out, and Critter’s mood matched mine, and we headed south along the mucky trail that would take us to the Crossing.

  It was, actually, that time of year when mortals traveled least. So it was a solitary ride that March day, sometimes fast on frozen ground, sometimes slow and sloppy. I missed supper but slid into the Crossing after dark. It had grown dramatically, a whole city that had mushroomed up beginning even before Puma County shut down and blew out the candles. But here were lights galore, lights in every window. I saw no livery or hostler and was glad I’d brought a feedbag of oats for Critter. There were plenty of saddle horses in view, mostly tied to long hitch rails along the riverbank. There were more bunkhouses than before, with a lamp shining in most, and I also spotted a few pens, where horses could be kept safely for the night. But all the new log buildings on the Puma County riverbank were nothing but shadows compared to what I saw on the river, tied to the shore with hawsers wrapped around snubbing posts. At the time of my previous trip, there was one floating saloon, but now there were three floating palaces, all of them built on large scows, or flatboats, and accessed with gangplanks from the riverbank. The saloon was still there, a long room atop the scow, and it looked crowded. Tied next to it was a gambling parlor, which also served booze, brightly lit. The third, and plainer, riverboat was darker and cruder, and had a red lamp burning at the door. So at least some of the gals had set up shop here, thirty miles from Doubtful, in cramped quarters stretching in a line on a big scow. There looked to be a small kitchen or dining area at the rear end of the scow, but no other amenities. I couldn’t even see how the rooms were heated. Maybe they weren’t. Stove pipes rose from the saloon and gambling parlor, emitting thin white threads of wood smoke into the dusk.

  No one had noticed me arrive. I studied the layout closely. There was still a flatboat used for crossing the river, guided by a cable anchored on both banks of the North Platte. It was big enough to carry a wagon and team and some passengers. On the Puma County side, a virtual city had sprung up, mostly bunks and corrals, and one beanery with a tired-looking old cripple standing in the lamplight.

  I probed through the dark, simply curious about what lay on the outskirts of this instant burg. What interested me most was new graves, but it was too dark, and I kept stumbling over cottonwood roots and gave up on that. The people who owned that property and operated the ferry, the Yumping Yimminys, were probably in the dark house, but no lamp was lit. I hiked along the riverbank, watching the mighty river, swollen from early thaws, roll by in starlight. It was a piece of water, and the county line ran down its middle. Them saloons and parlors were plainly in Puma County if that old turd of a lawyer was right. But who knows? I wished I could see the law saying the county lines split the rivers.

  The scows bobbed in the inky waters, their great hawsers wrapped tight around the posts set deep into the bank. They sure weren’t going anywhere. I saw someone from the gambler scow step out, head for the rear railing, and piss. That’s how it was done around there. There’d be no water closets on board any of the scows, and a feller would need to head for an outhouse near the bunkhouses for relief if he needed to.

  I didn’t know who owned any of it. But it was time to serve the papers and start shutting the hidden city down. It sure wouldn’t be easy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I took my time. No one noticed a stray stranger wandering about in the dusk. I peered through the small windows on the river scows but did not board them. Not yet. They were crowded. The makeshift sin town was doing a lot of business. I recognized some of the drovers in the saloon, men who had been coming to Doubtful. Some were wearing sidearms; most weren’t. I spotted a couple of security men, both armed, keeping an eye on the crowd. In a place like this, they had to make their own peace, if that’s what it might be called.

  A crowd was lined up at the bar; more were sitting around tables at one end of the scow. The barkeep was familiar to me; he had poured at Mrs. Gladstone’s Sampling Room before the Temperance ladies shut him down. A little smoke hung in the air; there wasn’t much ventilation in there. Two chandeliers with kerosene lamps lit the floating saloon. The scow bobbed restlessly tugging on its rope tethers, which were ropes at the front and rear, snubbed to posts on the riverbank. A loose gangplank took customers to the riverbank.

  I examined the middle scow, this one a gambling joint. Sure enough, the man behind the faro layout was Cronk, the gambler at the Sampling Room in times past. There were other tables in the cramped joint, each with a dealer. A tiny bar at one end served drinks to the drovers. A rear door led to a tiny deck, which served as the outhouse. Like the other scow, the gambling parlor was lit by two small chandeliers.

  The third scow was darker, with only a single lamp at the single door. But there was a watchman there, and he wore a sidearm. The rooms were lit by small portholes, hardly a foot square, and curtained. There sure wasn’t much light in there. A small deck at the rear served as an outhouse. There may have been four gals working in there; maybe more. Plus the madam, if there was one at all. Like the other scows, it bobbed on the river, tugging at its tethers.

  Well, if the county line was somewhere out in the middle of the broad Platte, then these outfits were violating Puma County law, that was plain. I’d do something about it if I could. There were too many armed men to deal with, including whoever was in the old log house and in the bunkhouses that were available for customers. The best thing was to go unarmed. I slipped back to Critter, undid my gun belt, and slid the weapon into the roll I had tied behind the cantle. That would make the whole thing easier.

  I pulled the steel circlet of office off my shirt and pinned it on my coat, just to make the visit official. I pretty much knew what I’d say, and hoped it would work.

  I started at the third barge, the quiet one, walking up the gangplank where I was immediately waylaid by the security man.

  “Two bucks, fella,” the man said. “Then you wait your turn. You take whoever’s freed up.”

  “You the owner?”

  “No, that’s someone else, and she ain’t here.”

  “You tell her that Sheriff Pickens is giving her ten days to pull out, along with the girls and you.”

  “You the sheriff, are you? Sorry, pal, this ain’t Puma County.”

  “Our county attorney says the line runs down the middle of the streambed. So it’s Puma, and you’ll shut down. I’ll be returning in force. You won’t want to deal with that.”

  “Horsepucky, Sheriff.”

  “I’ve given you the word. Ten days. April fifteen I’ll be back.”

  “Go to hell, Sheriff. I ought to shoot you and throw you overboard.”

  “But you won’t.”

  The guard didn’t answer.

  “Ten days, or this place gets busted up, and you won’t like it.”

  “It’s all horsepucky,” the man said.

  That was about what I expected. For them, the reality was a little sin-town and a lot of quick cash. Not some lone lawman helpless to crack down.

  The next place was easier. I walked up the plank and onto the scow, and into Cronk’s gambling den. The dealer had put some work into it. The cabin w
as enameled white, and there were some oil paintings of nudes on the walls, and he and his dealers were all wearing clean white shirts.

  Cronk looked up from his game, and recognized me. “Sheriff?”

  “Well, Cronk, fancy meeting you.”

  “Yeah, surprise, eh?”

  The faro game halted, with six players listening. Every one of them was a drover from the ranches south of Doubtful. Two were armed. There were two poker games going at the round tables in the place.

  “County line goes to the middle of the stream, Cronk. So this is Puma County. Got to shut you down.”

  “Bug off, Sheriff.”

  “You got ten days, Cronk. I’ll be back with force to enforce it.”

  “Yeah, five scared merchants and the Temperance women.”

  “Don’t underestimate the women, Cronk.”

  The gambler smiled, bit off the end of a small cigar, and lit it. “I never underestimate women. And I usually overestimate you. Don’t know why. I’m probably overestimating you right now.” He eyed me, studying my waist, and smiled. “You were smart. It would be real dumb to walk in here looking for a fight.”

  “That’s what my ma always told me,” I said. “Don’t pick a fight with four-hundred-pound gorillas.”

  Cronk smiled and puffed. “I don’t think we’re leaving. And I don’t think we’ll head for the other side of the river. Not if all our customers got to take a ferry. So we’ll stay. And you can bring the damndest posse you want, and you’ll just end up with a mess of funerals. Sorry, Sheriff, this place won’t melt away.”

  He pulled two cards out of the box, the soda and hock.

  The cowboy visitors had absorbed it all, and word would soon get back to the ranches. I didn’t know whether that was good or bad.

  This barge was narrower than the others, and the tables were lined up in a single row. It didn’t feel comfortable, either, and I wondered why cowboys would even bother to sit down in a small cabin on top of a wooden scow. The players were older men. I didn’t see any wild and wooly young drovers among them. And unlike most any saloon, this place was a mausoleum, so quiet you could hear the clatter of chips being bet.